Confessions of a New Father Part Three
Gangsta rappers wax poetic when rhyming about their cribs. They fight, in fact, to get them featured on the MTV Cribs show, and many of their hit singles revolve on brining _______’s back to their cribs. Yet my son, Leo, aka LC, aka LC Hammer, aka Leo the Lip, is no gangsta rapper and thus he has no pride in his crib. In fact, the boy, who is now nearly four months old, has about as much affection for his crib as the religious right has for gay marriage. You would probably catch Pat Robertson at a gay pride parade before you’d see my son sleeping peacefully in his crib. For Leo, the crib is a confining dungeon of tall oak pillars and oscillating mobile detachments, which circle ominously above his head, and nothing more.
So what do the parents of a crib-hater do? We started by trying to pimp out the crib. The first step was to kit the periphery with a funky bumper adorned with animals. But animal prints are cold comfort to a child that prefers the warmth of his mother’s bosom to the cold confines of an all too spacious crib. So we bought a crib mirror, so that the young star could gaze at himself like narcissus, and hopefully lull himself to sleep. The idea of sleeping with a mirror next to you might sound sleazy to some- but we were willing to try just about anything. But the mirror was a bust, and so was the frog named Leap who sings the alphabet and then giggles like an obsequious prostitute, and the organ that has fluorescent animals that light up and sing lullabies. No, there is probably no toy anywhere in the sweatshops and warehouses of Guandong province that can make my son love his crib. But I’m still willing to dream- in fact-I am thisclose to shelling out nearly $100 for a crib vibrator device- again, like the crib mirror, its not as sleazy as it sounds- the thing is supposed to help your infant feel as though his crib were traveling 55 miles per hour.
Since the boy refuses to sleep in the crib, he usually spends part of the night in a little infant bed that lies between my wife Jen and I, and the rest of the night nuzzled right up to his mom’s breast area. I refer to the little bed within a bed as the penalty box- because he doesn’t prefer it, but he will get in there and allow us to keep him in their for brief periods of time. While he doesn’t like the penalty box, it does seem downright posh after a stint of fire and brimstone screaming in the crib. For him, getting sent into the box after being in the crib is like a prisoner being brought up from solitary to share H-block with his cellies, and getting the full upgrade right into his mothers arms, is, well, like stretching out in business class with a fine cabernet and some comfy slippers.
We’ve established that the boy is not a great sleeper, but there are other things that Leo is quite good at. Travel, for example, is definitely something that the boy can do. We flew to Buffalo twice, both times on Southwest, which has an open seating policy. I had nightmare visions of other passengers seeing us come down the aisle and receiving us with all the warmth one might accord a junior level member of Al-Qaeda or the Taliban. But the Lip was eerily silent on all four flights, and is similarly unobtrusive while riding in the car. Though his proclivity for motion has its price- sitting down on the couch and examining the evening paper is certainly not high on the child’s agenda. No, the boy can often only cope with the world if his father consents to pace around the apartment holding him aloft like the panchen lama being carried through the streets of Lhasa.
There is no mistaking that Leo is a mama’s boy. He laughs at my jokes and is not above watching sports on TV with me, but when he settles in on his mothers lap for a refreshing splash of breast milk and gazes up at her, star-struck, there is no question that he knows where his bread is buttered. Though I am not without utility as well. The role that I often play is akin to what fluffers do in the pornographic film industry-again not to be perverse- but my job is basically to occupy Leo until the headliner (Jen) is ready to work her magic. And that can sometimes be quite an undertaking.
Leo, like most infants, I suspect, doesn’t cry. People often talk about babies crying, but do they really cry? I have never seen a tear stream down my son’s cheeks, and the emotion he displays isn’t sadness but rather primal anger. He can wail, he can scream, he can whine, he can harrumph, he can fuss, he can hyperventilate, but he doesn’t cry. And when Leo is inconsolable he arches his back, straightens out his legs, closes his eyes, clenches his fists and raises them up by his head as though he were a televangelist summoning the Holy Spirit, and turns beat red as he screams as though he were trying to exercise poisonous demons that are eating out his intestines. It’s not a pretty sight- and, in truth, I am delighted when I can him over in this frenzied state to his mother, whose magic breasts and calm demeanor usually manage to hypnotize the savage beast.
Leo is an eager and enthusiastic eater. He likes a good breast milk buzz early in the morning, long before the drunks on nearby Madison Avenue peel the labels from their bottles of Bud. Leo would breastfeed 24/7 if he could. Of course there are times when he’s hungry and attacks the breasts with the gusto of a little Pac-Man, but there are also many other times when he’s not really hungry, but just wants a little camaraderie and perhaps just an aperitif of breast milk. In this respect, you could liken him to a social drinker. Jen is frequently flummoxed when I suggest that she breast feed Leo.
“He just ate a half-hour ago!” she’ll protest.
“So what, let him eat again!” I’ll counter, because its no skin off of my back, and the very act of breast-feeding makes the boy happy.
Leo is also a serious chick-magnet. The very sight of him smiling and cooing in his stroller can make grown women become all mushy and melty in public places. Sometimes I wish that I could loan him out to single friends, so that his charms could be put to more constructive use. Of course, it takes two to tango, and Leo returns the attention of his admirers tenfold, sometimes reserving his cutest smiles and most blatant flirtation for complete strangers that approach him in café’s restaurants, or on the streets. The little man revels in the spotlight, and is never too busy to make time for adoring fans.
Most importantly, my son is good at reminding us that there is still purity and innocence in the world. All it takes us a little smile, a fart, a good burp, some laughable, incoherent mumbling, or the look of tranquility on his face when he drifts off to sleep to remind us of how lucky we are to have him and how precious these early days of his life are. He may never be on MTV’s Cribs, but he might just be the only person in the world capable of making me feel O.K. after getting a speeding ticket for going 42 in a 30 zone. His dad loves him so much, that pretty soon, he’s going to have a crib that’s even faster than dad’s car.
Showing posts with label new father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new father. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Confessions of a New Father Part Two
Confessions of a New Father Part Two
Shortly after I wrote Confessions Part One, which may have left some with the impression that Leo was quite a handful, my wife Jen and I discovered that the real problem wasn’t Leo. It was us. How to explain this sudden revelation? Easy- my mom and dad came for a visit. My mom, Joanne, had six boys from 1960-1966, and then one more, yours truly, in 1972, so she has more than just a touch of experience with babies, and despite the decades that have passed since her days of caring for infants, not much has really changed. The first day or two of their visit, Leo was strangely quiet, but I chalked it up to random luck. But the trend continued for the entire visit, and I soon grew to see that my mom really knew how to handle the boy.
Leo was as fascinated by his grandmother as she was by him. Not only did she place him in oddly comforting holds he had never experienced before, she talked to him. Boy did she talk to him. And the funny thing was he listened. Intently. In fact, I doubt if anyone has hung on my mom’s words so eagerly in many years. Leo was so fascinated by mom’s running commentary and litany of rhetorical questions, I could not help but wonder if, in the future, he might be able to serve as my spokesman since he and my mother clearly communicated so well together. My mom also is like the Grand Wizard of burp inducement. She could induce a burp out of a Sudanese man starving in the desert. Jen and I would beat on Leo’s back like a drum to no avail, but with my mom on the case, beautifully full and throaty burps spewed forth with little or no effort.
But all good things must come to an end, so after the visit we were left to our own devices albeit with a few new tricks learned from Joanne. We’ve been having a blast with Leo, treasuring at least 75% of the moments we have with him, but he had fallen into a pattern of behaving like a psychopath each evening, usually around 11pm. The festivities would usually kick off with an extremely unpleasant and unproductive feeding session. McDonald’s has the Happy Meal; Leo has the Angry Meal™. Angry Meals™ would usually go down like this: the boy acts as though he’s starving, and when given the breast, he at first attacks it with vigor, but only moments later, the slurping turns to fury, as he begins to wail and punch his arms at the offending breast, all the while howling and kicking his legs while his face turns Blackhawk red.
So we take a step back, and here I hover in, offering a concerned look, some rhetorical questions (maybe he wants to….take a walk, burp, savor the feel of a new diaper, read a truly good book, enjoy a particularly fine cabernet sauvignon, or for once in his life see a movie with Ben Stiller in it that doesn’t totally suck) or some moral support. After I take him on a walkabout, during which time I hop around, shake back and forth and talk like a man just let out of a mental ward who hangs around at bus station shelters or in the erotica section at Barnes and Noble. If I succeed in calming him, I then hand him back to Jen, and if I don’t, I hand him back to Jen anyways, and she tries to entice him more subtly to the breast, teasing him with a bit of maternal foreplay before getting on to the main event. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Often times while Jen is bathing or otherwise trying to mollify Leo I play the role of DPH, Designated Pacifier Holder, basically the guy who sticks his finger inside the pacifier and holds it there to make sure it doesn’t fall out. You might think that that sounds like a bit part, but its actually a crucial job, because pacifiers fall out of angry babies mouths about 4 times per minute, on average, when left to their own devices. I asked our pediatrician about the feasibility of inventing a device that straps the pacifier onto the back of the child’s head, but apparently there are some reasons why that can’t be done. Something about breathing or choking if my memory serves me.
When it comes time for Leo to hit the sheets, Jen wraps Leo up like a little pastel taco, in this device called a swaddle me, which actually functions as a straight jacket. (though I think Babies R Us would have a harder time marketing it if it were called a baby straight jacket) When Leo is content, he looks pretty comical in this thing, but when he’s angry he tries to bust out of it like a mental patient being carried away to his cell. One tactic that I read about on the internet for quieting an angry infant seemed to make no sense to me. Why would a baby be soothed by the deafening roar of a vacuum cleaner? We had tried classical music, but the boy can’t be bothered with it. The idea of plugging a vacuum cleaner in late at night seemed insane but we gave it a shot and it delivered immediate results.
The infernal humm of the vacuum is music to Leo’s ears. Our vacuum is just so loud, its like he just can’t compete with it, so he just submits like a chimpanzee who has just been tranquilized on Animal Planet. The only problem is that we hate listening to the vacuum, and I don’t imagine that our downstairs neighbors find it particularly melodic either, especially at three A.M. So we have to calculate, which is more annoying: Leo screaming or the vacuum humming. I can live with the vacuum, but Jen prefers to hear Leo, so we mix it up. The funny thing about it is that if we turn the vacuum off before Leo goes asleep it takes him awhile to realize its off and that he can start crying again. But not nearly as long as we would like.
Thought he may occasionally act like homicidal maniac bent on world destruction, our love for the boy is powerful and unconditional. I can think of no better way to illustrate this than to gross you out with an anecdote that might cause you to question my dear wife’s sanity. The other day, while changing Leo’s diaper Jen approached me with what seemed almost like a confession.
“Do you think Leo’s dirty diapers smell?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I replied.
“I actually think they smell good,” she said, giggling a bit.
“You’re serious?
“Yeah, maybe I’m crazy but, I actually kind of like it!”
So while we have now established that, at least according to the unbiased opinion of his mother, the boy’s crap doesn’t stink and in fact smells good, let us move on to a story of public flatulence which proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that Leo was my son, and removed any possibility that I would have to take Jen on Jerry Springer to demand a paternity test. Leo and I were at Borders, which on a weekday afternoon was very quiet but not empty. Leo was sleeping peacefully while me and several other people in the vicinity thumbed through books and magazines which we had no intention of purchasing until all of the sudden Leo uncorked a whopper of a fart which drew all eyes to me. The fart was a long, loud and protracted one, much like an out of tune tuba played by a 9 year old, and it sounded far too grown up to have been from a sleeping infant, so the dirty looks came at me. I just shrugged, feeling like a good dad for not pointing down at my son.
Leo might very well turn out to be an actor when he grows up, if not sooner. The speed with which he can move from one character to the next is simply breathtaking. One moment he is auditioning for the part of “content infant number one”, looking as though he has not a care in the world. He plays the part so convincingly that you, the parent, might feel so bold as to pull out a book or even lie down. But, beware, a split second later, and with no forewarning, he’ll be auditioning for the part of “child being dismembered by an alien” in some kind of macabre horror flick.
If the acting thing doesn’t work out, however, I kind of have the feeling that Leo might grow up to be a boxer. His default setting seems to be clenched fists held up high to protect his face, and he has a scowl that is not unlike the one that Ivan Drago wore before his humiliating loss to Rocky Balboa in Moscow where Balboa succeeded in winning over a hostile crowd of Soviet sports fans, telling them, “if I can change, you can change, we’ze can all change!”
Though I suspect Balboa wasn’t referring to changing diapers, I have to agree that he was right, even I can change, I must say. Not only can I change a mean (not to mention filthy) diaper I have something of a roll. Jen has had the misfortune of being in the direct line of Leo’s fire during several diaper changes, yet I have still somehow managed to avoid the golden shower treatment. Though I have to admit that the streak (for lack of a better term) kind of haunts me- every time I change him I go so fast that the whole procedure is something of a Chinese fire drill- all the while I am thinking can’t let him pee on me. Someday, though, I know, it will happen, because I peed on my parents and siblings, and they peed on their parents and siblings. It’s an ancient ritual, and definitively one of the perks of being an infant, I suppose. People spend their whole lives acquiescing to the demands of others, trying not to piss people off, as it were, but when you are six weeks old, you can just let loose and not worry about the consequences. Leo is six weeks old this week, and so he is free to eat his Angry Meals™, listen to the vacuum, indulge his mother with his sweet smelling diapers and listen to his grandma chatter to his heart’s content. I only hope he’s enjoying all of this as much as I think he is.
Shortly after I wrote Confessions Part One, which may have left some with the impression that Leo was quite a handful, my wife Jen and I discovered that the real problem wasn’t Leo. It was us. How to explain this sudden revelation? Easy- my mom and dad came for a visit. My mom, Joanne, had six boys from 1960-1966, and then one more, yours truly, in 1972, so she has more than just a touch of experience with babies, and despite the decades that have passed since her days of caring for infants, not much has really changed. The first day or two of their visit, Leo was strangely quiet, but I chalked it up to random luck. But the trend continued for the entire visit, and I soon grew to see that my mom really knew how to handle the boy.
Leo was as fascinated by his grandmother as she was by him. Not only did she place him in oddly comforting holds he had never experienced before, she talked to him. Boy did she talk to him. And the funny thing was he listened. Intently. In fact, I doubt if anyone has hung on my mom’s words so eagerly in many years. Leo was so fascinated by mom’s running commentary and litany of rhetorical questions, I could not help but wonder if, in the future, he might be able to serve as my spokesman since he and my mother clearly communicated so well together. My mom also is like the Grand Wizard of burp inducement. She could induce a burp out of a Sudanese man starving in the desert. Jen and I would beat on Leo’s back like a drum to no avail, but with my mom on the case, beautifully full and throaty burps spewed forth with little or no effort.
But all good things must come to an end, so after the visit we were left to our own devices albeit with a few new tricks learned from Joanne. We’ve been having a blast with Leo, treasuring at least 75% of the moments we have with him, but he had fallen into a pattern of behaving like a psychopath each evening, usually around 11pm. The festivities would usually kick off with an extremely unpleasant and unproductive feeding session. McDonald’s has the Happy Meal; Leo has the Angry Meal™. Angry Meals™ would usually go down like this: the boy acts as though he’s starving, and when given the breast, he at first attacks it with vigor, but only moments later, the slurping turns to fury, as he begins to wail and punch his arms at the offending breast, all the while howling and kicking his legs while his face turns Blackhawk red.
So we take a step back, and here I hover in, offering a concerned look, some rhetorical questions (maybe he wants to….take a walk, burp, savor the feel of a new diaper, read a truly good book, enjoy a particularly fine cabernet sauvignon, or for once in his life see a movie with Ben Stiller in it that doesn’t totally suck) or some moral support. After I take him on a walkabout, during which time I hop around, shake back and forth and talk like a man just let out of a mental ward who hangs around at bus station shelters or in the erotica section at Barnes and Noble. If I succeed in calming him, I then hand him back to Jen, and if I don’t, I hand him back to Jen anyways, and she tries to entice him more subtly to the breast, teasing him with a bit of maternal foreplay before getting on to the main event. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Often times while Jen is bathing or otherwise trying to mollify Leo I play the role of DPH, Designated Pacifier Holder, basically the guy who sticks his finger inside the pacifier and holds it there to make sure it doesn’t fall out. You might think that that sounds like a bit part, but its actually a crucial job, because pacifiers fall out of angry babies mouths about 4 times per minute, on average, when left to their own devices. I asked our pediatrician about the feasibility of inventing a device that straps the pacifier onto the back of the child’s head, but apparently there are some reasons why that can’t be done. Something about breathing or choking if my memory serves me.
When it comes time for Leo to hit the sheets, Jen wraps Leo up like a little pastel taco, in this device called a swaddle me, which actually functions as a straight jacket. (though I think Babies R Us would have a harder time marketing it if it were called a baby straight jacket) When Leo is content, he looks pretty comical in this thing, but when he’s angry he tries to bust out of it like a mental patient being carried away to his cell. One tactic that I read about on the internet for quieting an angry infant seemed to make no sense to me. Why would a baby be soothed by the deafening roar of a vacuum cleaner? We had tried classical music, but the boy can’t be bothered with it. The idea of plugging a vacuum cleaner in late at night seemed insane but we gave it a shot and it delivered immediate results.
The infernal humm of the vacuum is music to Leo’s ears. Our vacuum is just so loud, its like he just can’t compete with it, so he just submits like a chimpanzee who has just been tranquilized on Animal Planet. The only problem is that we hate listening to the vacuum, and I don’t imagine that our downstairs neighbors find it particularly melodic either, especially at three A.M. So we have to calculate, which is more annoying: Leo screaming or the vacuum humming. I can live with the vacuum, but Jen prefers to hear Leo, so we mix it up. The funny thing about it is that if we turn the vacuum off before Leo goes asleep it takes him awhile to realize its off and that he can start crying again. But not nearly as long as we would like.
Thought he may occasionally act like homicidal maniac bent on world destruction, our love for the boy is powerful and unconditional. I can think of no better way to illustrate this than to gross you out with an anecdote that might cause you to question my dear wife’s sanity. The other day, while changing Leo’s diaper Jen approached me with what seemed almost like a confession.
“Do you think Leo’s dirty diapers smell?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” I replied.
“I actually think they smell good,” she said, giggling a bit.
“You’re serious?
“Yeah, maybe I’m crazy but, I actually kind of like it!”
So while we have now established that, at least according to the unbiased opinion of his mother, the boy’s crap doesn’t stink and in fact smells good, let us move on to a story of public flatulence which proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that Leo was my son, and removed any possibility that I would have to take Jen on Jerry Springer to demand a paternity test. Leo and I were at Borders, which on a weekday afternoon was very quiet but not empty. Leo was sleeping peacefully while me and several other people in the vicinity thumbed through books and magazines which we had no intention of purchasing until all of the sudden Leo uncorked a whopper of a fart which drew all eyes to me. The fart was a long, loud and protracted one, much like an out of tune tuba played by a 9 year old, and it sounded far too grown up to have been from a sleeping infant, so the dirty looks came at me. I just shrugged, feeling like a good dad for not pointing down at my son.
Leo might very well turn out to be an actor when he grows up, if not sooner. The speed with which he can move from one character to the next is simply breathtaking. One moment he is auditioning for the part of “content infant number one”, looking as though he has not a care in the world. He plays the part so convincingly that you, the parent, might feel so bold as to pull out a book or even lie down. But, beware, a split second later, and with no forewarning, he’ll be auditioning for the part of “child being dismembered by an alien” in some kind of macabre horror flick.
If the acting thing doesn’t work out, however, I kind of have the feeling that Leo might grow up to be a boxer. His default setting seems to be clenched fists held up high to protect his face, and he has a scowl that is not unlike the one that Ivan Drago wore before his humiliating loss to Rocky Balboa in Moscow where Balboa succeeded in winning over a hostile crowd of Soviet sports fans, telling them, “if I can change, you can change, we’ze can all change!”
Though I suspect Balboa wasn’t referring to changing diapers, I have to agree that he was right, even I can change, I must say. Not only can I change a mean (not to mention filthy) diaper I have something of a roll. Jen has had the misfortune of being in the direct line of Leo’s fire during several diaper changes, yet I have still somehow managed to avoid the golden shower treatment. Though I have to admit that the streak (for lack of a better term) kind of haunts me- every time I change him I go so fast that the whole procedure is something of a Chinese fire drill- all the while I am thinking can’t let him pee on me. Someday, though, I know, it will happen, because I peed on my parents and siblings, and they peed on their parents and siblings. It’s an ancient ritual, and definitively one of the perks of being an infant, I suppose. People spend their whole lives acquiescing to the demands of others, trying not to piss people off, as it were, but when you are six weeks old, you can just let loose and not worry about the consequences. Leo is six weeks old this week, and so he is free to eat his Angry Meals™, listen to the vacuum, indulge his mother with his sweet smelling diapers and listen to his grandma chatter to his heart’s content. I only hope he’s enjoying all of this as much as I think he is.
Confessions of a New Father Part One
"Nothing can prepare you for having your first child," we heard over and over again during my wife Jennifer's pregnancy. So I worked hard preparing myself to be completely and woefully unprepared. While Jen pored over volumes of books on babies, became a regular visitor to scores of baby related websites, and spent hour upon hour agonizing over which products to buy for the baby (we settled on all of them), I was pretty much just along for the ride, excited about the impending arrival but more or less just a spectator observing the mayhem. If there was no way to get prepared, what was the point in trying?
Childbirth is obviously a woman's show, but the American mans role has changed an awful lot since I was born. My dad- who has a lot of experience having had six sons- tells me that in his day, the nurses would tell men to wait outside during labor.
"You felt kind of relieved not to have to stay," he said.
The situation was still the same when we lived in Macedonia, (and probably in many other countries as well) save for the fact that instead of waiting in the hospital most men repair to a local bar with their friends in a testosterone soaked orgy of male bonding drunkenness. But these days, American men are expected to be on hand for the delivery and that's a good thing.
Still, just because we now have ringside seats for the delivery experience, it doesn’t mean we have any idea what the hell we’re doing. Jen's contractions began at 7AM, and grew stronger and more frequent before we arrived at the hospital at Noon. I naively assumed that our baby would be born some time that afternoon, and that we’d be home in time to watch the Cubs game together that evening. I was right about watching the game- the hospital had a great wireless connection that allowed us to watch baseball on mlb.com right in the delivery room, but wrong about the being home early part. By 11pm they told us she still wasn't ready to start pushing. At 1AM, the doctors began to talk about having to a C-section. By 3.15 AM, we were told that she was finally ready, and I thanked my stars that I wasn't required to do any pushing, as I was mentally and physically spent and probably couldn't have pushed a shopping cart, let alone a child by that point.
Once it was time to push, I figured the baby would be spewing forth some time soon, but our child, as it turned out, was perfectly content in the womb, and was in no hurry to come out. I was exhausted and became more so just watching all of the effort that Jen was putting forth. The doctors and nurses, bless them, were wonderfully encouraging, repeatedly telling Jen, "good job," and "you're almost there!" But after three plus hours of pushing, I couldn't help but think, you told her she was almost there HOURS ago!
"We'll have to use a vacuum to suction him out," they finally told us after three hours and fifteen minutes of pushing. I didn't think they were going to wheel in a Hoover or a Dust Buster, but I really had no idea what this would entail. Nonetheless, within moments I saw his little head, covered in slime, in what was surely the most surreal moment of my life. I'm sure that this moment is bizarre for any first time Dad, but our little guy procrastinated coming out for so long, I had begun to wonder if he would ever show his face.
The all female team of doctors and nurses pulled him out, hoisted him up, told us, "it's a boy!" and then handed me a set of scissors to cut the cord. The next thing I knew, he was swept away by a team of doctors. Jen eventually got to bond with him for about 30 seconds, but I didn't get to hold him until several hours later that day. It didn't matter though; the gravity of the occasion awed me. In my mind, I knew that I was going to be a dad, but I just couldn't believe that it somehow just happened. I arrived at the hospital with just a wife, but I'd be leaving with a child in tow.
Before Leo even arrived home from the hospital, he already had a closet stocked with Buffalo Bills, Sabres and Chicago Cubs bibs, outfits and hats. How could I inflict such horrible sports teams on my son? Ok, so inheriting sports teams that no only lose regularly, but also manage to do so in the most heart-wrenching manner possible, might not be good karma, but what was I supposed to do? Get the kid Cowboys and Yankees gear?
The first days at home with our boy flew by in something of a haze, kind of like a great night out where you drink too much and later on know that you had a good time, but don't remember exactly what you did. I do know that I spent hours just gazing at my son, who we named Leo, and marveling at every little thing about him. The first things you notice, of course, are how tiny and fragile he seems. Everything about him is small, save for his voice! Sure, I've heard lots of babies cry before, in fact, I normally sit next to inconsolable babies on airplanes without fail. But your baby's wail is different. You can't just shake your head and think, can't they quiet him down? The "they" is now "us." Leo's wail is an angry, primal scream that could shatter windows, and when it happens it sure as hell cannot be ignored.
Jen is very cool and composed, even when Leo the Lip is wailing as though his innards were being pealed right off of him. Jen is such a good mom, I sometimes want to confirm with her that she has not, in fact, done this mothering thing before. I, on the other hand, am a rank novice, and when left alone with Leo when he's in "Lip" mode have a tendency to panic. In all fairness, Jen has changed most of Leo's diapers, but my first encounter with Leo's undergarments was probably enough to put me off on the task for a lifetime. The boy had soiled himself so thoroughly that it was hard to tell where the shit ended and where the boy began. The diaper was so loaded down with crap that it weighed about as much as a cinder block. Leo's legs were coated in shit, as was his outfit, and I had no idea where to even start, the child needed a full scale bath, not the dainty little wipes Jen had on the changing table! To make matters worse, Leo is not a big fan of being changed to begin with, so he was screaming bloody murder while kicking his legs around and flailing his arms like a man with a gunshot wound trying to hail a taxi to the hospital in a downpour.
"JEN, PLEASE COME QUICK!" I yelled loudly enough to elevate above Leo's screams.
Jen came running in and, at first, was annoyed with me for unnecessarily alarming her. She had thought that Leo was hurt. But once she realized how utterly panicked I had become over his overflowing diaper she got the giggles and could not stop laughing for hours.
I have, on several occasions, suggested that we enroll Leo in anger management classes, but Jen thinks he's still a bit young. The thing that I find fascinating about babies is all of the crazy facial expressions they get. Leo has a sleepy look, an alert look, several angry frowns, but the one look that he can't do is the smile. I think it's interesting that babies can immediately frown but that it takes awhile for them to be able to smile. But then again, I think just about everything my son does is edge-of-the-seat fascinating. Look he's yawning! Now, look he's stretching! He's putting his fist on the side of his head! He's trying to gouge his eyes out! Hey, he's pulling my chest hair, SHIT, IT HURTS! I jump up off the sofa several times each hour to get my camera, and I already have about 14,000 photos of him lying around the house in various moods and states of dress and undress.
Leo is a really smart kid already. I think he already knows to save his most fierce tantrums for when his mom is away or otherwise occupied. One of the first times I was in sole custody of the boy was- please don't laugh- during one of Jen's showers. I could tell Leo was hungry- in between piercing screams he was trying to fit his fists in his mouth. I had to try to play the role of green room host, keeping our guest occupied until the host of the program could entertain him. But I was doing a crappy job, and as each minute crept by I kept thinking this may be the longest shower of my life, this may be the longest shower in recorded history! Jen's shower was probably no more than 15 minutes, but its amazing how long fifteen minutes can be when you have an angry and hungry infant on your hands.
The interminable shower though, was just a warm-up for my first real night alone with Leo. One Saturday night in September, Jen needed to attend her sisters hen party, making Leo and I bachelors for the evening. Jen left me with what she referred to as a "soft feeder" with which I was supposed to feed him while she was gone.
"The soft feeder is better than a bottle because it helps them avoid nipple confusion," she told me, and not knowing any better, I just nodded my head in collusion.
I'm no expert on the phenomenon of nipple confusion, but I seriously doubted that any son of mine would find the concept of nipples to be very confusing, and time has proven me correct on this issue. Jen and I had also had a mini-disagreement regarding pacifiers on this same nipple confusion point. I believe, firmly, that pacifiers are one of the world's great inventions- when they work. Jen was concerned that a pacifier would cause nipple confusion and screw up her breast-feeding efforts, but Leo took to the pacifier right away, and I begged and pleaded on his behalf and mine for its continued usage. (and I won)
So there we were, two men on a Saturday night with some sports on TV, a pizza and some good Octoberfest beer for me and a soft feeder on the coffee table for Leo. Everything was just fine for the first fifteen minutes after Jen left. Leo was sleeping on my chest like a little lamb, and I couldn't help but think, what's all the fuss about, this is easy! But then the beast began to lurk. It started with some minor fidgeting which I tried to shrug off, then there were some gurgling noises, then a low whimper, and before you knew it- all out kicking and screaming. Don't panic- remember your training- get out the damned soft feeder. But I soon learned that the soft feeder should really just be called a baby shovel. Sure, I'll grant you that its shovel-like feeding mallet looks and feels nothing like a nipple, but the damn thing is so wide compared to his mouth, that even if the child was cooperating, feeding him with this shovel would be a serious challenge.
But Leo was not cooperating- far from it- he was shaking and gyrating his whole body like someone with real soul on a dance floor, screaming and repeatedly knocking the shovel with his hands. I gamely pressed on, trying, more or less to ram the shovel like tool down his mouth, but the boy was having none of it. He was hungry- no doubt- but he kept shaking his head around like he was having a seizure and each shovel full would either swamp him with too much milk or would stream all over his face and chest. If I had our dinner together on film, it would be hilarious, but it was not so amusing at the time. Leo was used to drinking his milk straight from a breast and could not seem to understand why his dad was shoveling milk down his throat with this strange device. I began to count the minutes till Jen got home, and when the moment arrived I felt an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt bad about it, but our men's dinner had been a complete failure and I wanted my boy to eat.
The trials and tribulations of dealing with a newborn are funnier than hearing about the joys, aren't they? Just admit it, you'd rather hear stories of impossible diaper changes and failed feedings than of fatherly bliss, right? Just human nature, I understand. But what makes all of the work rewarding are those moments you get with your child that are so sublime that they bring you to a stage of contentedness that you've never experienced before. When Leo lies on my chest, his heart beating right against mine and looks up at me with his bright, wide eyes, there is no warmer, more righteous feeling on earth. No matter what else has come before, or what will happen afterwards, in those moments you feel as though all is right with the world. Until the Cubs fail to advance runners in scoring position, and get unceremoniously swept out of the playoffs by the no-name Diamondbacks. Then, you're angry again. But it doesn't last as long or sting as bad, when you have your beautiful boy on your lap rhythmically sucking away happily at his pacifier, that marvelous invention that has saved the world.
Childbirth is obviously a woman's show, but the American mans role has changed an awful lot since I was born. My dad- who has a lot of experience having had six sons- tells me that in his day, the nurses would tell men to wait outside during labor.
"You felt kind of relieved not to have to stay," he said.
The situation was still the same when we lived in Macedonia, (and probably in many other countries as well) save for the fact that instead of waiting in the hospital most men repair to a local bar with their friends in a testosterone soaked orgy of male bonding drunkenness. But these days, American men are expected to be on hand for the delivery and that's a good thing.
Still, just because we now have ringside seats for the delivery experience, it doesn’t mean we have any idea what the hell we’re doing. Jen's contractions began at 7AM, and grew stronger and more frequent before we arrived at the hospital at Noon. I naively assumed that our baby would be born some time that afternoon, and that we’d be home in time to watch the Cubs game together that evening. I was right about watching the game- the hospital had a great wireless connection that allowed us to watch baseball on mlb.com right in the delivery room, but wrong about the being home early part. By 11pm they told us she still wasn't ready to start pushing. At 1AM, the doctors began to talk about having to a C-section. By 3.15 AM, we were told that she was finally ready, and I thanked my stars that I wasn't required to do any pushing, as I was mentally and physically spent and probably couldn't have pushed a shopping cart, let alone a child by that point.
Once it was time to push, I figured the baby would be spewing forth some time soon, but our child, as it turned out, was perfectly content in the womb, and was in no hurry to come out. I was exhausted and became more so just watching all of the effort that Jen was putting forth. The doctors and nurses, bless them, were wonderfully encouraging, repeatedly telling Jen, "good job," and "you're almost there!" But after three plus hours of pushing, I couldn't help but think, you told her she was almost there HOURS ago!
"We'll have to use a vacuum to suction him out," they finally told us after three hours and fifteen minutes of pushing. I didn't think they were going to wheel in a Hoover or a Dust Buster, but I really had no idea what this would entail. Nonetheless, within moments I saw his little head, covered in slime, in what was surely the most surreal moment of my life. I'm sure that this moment is bizarre for any first time Dad, but our little guy procrastinated coming out for so long, I had begun to wonder if he would ever show his face.
The all female team of doctors and nurses pulled him out, hoisted him up, told us, "it's a boy!" and then handed me a set of scissors to cut the cord. The next thing I knew, he was swept away by a team of doctors. Jen eventually got to bond with him for about 30 seconds, but I didn't get to hold him until several hours later that day. It didn't matter though; the gravity of the occasion awed me. In my mind, I knew that I was going to be a dad, but I just couldn't believe that it somehow just happened. I arrived at the hospital with just a wife, but I'd be leaving with a child in tow.
Before Leo even arrived home from the hospital, he already had a closet stocked with Buffalo Bills, Sabres and Chicago Cubs bibs, outfits and hats. How could I inflict such horrible sports teams on my son? Ok, so inheriting sports teams that no only lose regularly, but also manage to do so in the most heart-wrenching manner possible, might not be good karma, but what was I supposed to do? Get the kid Cowboys and Yankees gear?
The first days at home with our boy flew by in something of a haze, kind of like a great night out where you drink too much and later on know that you had a good time, but don't remember exactly what you did. I do know that I spent hours just gazing at my son, who we named Leo, and marveling at every little thing about him. The first things you notice, of course, are how tiny and fragile he seems. Everything about him is small, save for his voice! Sure, I've heard lots of babies cry before, in fact, I normally sit next to inconsolable babies on airplanes without fail. But your baby's wail is different. You can't just shake your head and think, can't they quiet him down? The "they" is now "us." Leo's wail is an angry, primal scream that could shatter windows, and when it happens it sure as hell cannot be ignored.
Jen is very cool and composed, even when Leo the Lip is wailing as though his innards were being pealed right off of him. Jen is such a good mom, I sometimes want to confirm with her that she has not, in fact, done this mothering thing before. I, on the other hand, am a rank novice, and when left alone with Leo when he's in "Lip" mode have a tendency to panic. In all fairness, Jen has changed most of Leo's diapers, but my first encounter with Leo's undergarments was probably enough to put me off on the task for a lifetime. The boy had soiled himself so thoroughly that it was hard to tell where the shit ended and where the boy began. The diaper was so loaded down with crap that it weighed about as much as a cinder block. Leo's legs were coated in shit, as was his outfit, and I had no idea where to even start, the child needed a full scale bath, not the dainty little wipes Jen had on the changing table! To make matters worse, Leo is not a big fan of being changed to begin with, so he was screaming bloody murder while kicking his legs around and flailing his arms like a man with a gunshot wound trying to hail a taxi to the hospital in a downpour.
"JEN, PLEASE COME QUICK!" I yelled loudly enough to elevate above Leo's screams.
Jen came running in and, at first, was annoyed with me for unnecessarily alarming her. She had thought that Leo was hurt. But once she realized how utterly panicked I had become over his overflowing diaper she got the giggles and could not stop laughing for hours.
I have, on several occasions, suggested that we enroll Leo in anger management classes, but Jen thinks he's still a bit young. The thing that I find fascinating about babies is all of the crazy facial expressions they get. Leo has a sleepy look, an alert look, several angry frowns, but the one look that he can't do is the smile. I think it's interesting that babies can immediately frown but that it takes awhile for them to be able to smile. But then again, I think just about everything my son does is edge-of-the-seat fascinating. Look he's yawning! Now, look he's stretching! He's putting his fist on the side of his head! He's trying to gouge his eyes out! Hey, he's pulling my chest hair, SHIT, IT HURTS! I jump up off the sofa several times each hour to get my camera, and I already have about 14,000 photos of him lying around the house in various moods and states of dress and undress.
Leo is a really smart kid already. I think he already knows to save his most fierce tantrums for when his mom is away or otherwise occupied. One of the first times I was in sole custody of the boy was- please don't laugh- during one of Jen's showers. I could tell Leo was hungry- in between piercing screams he was trying to fit his fists in his mouth. I had to try to play the role of green room host, keeping our guest occupied until the host of the program could entertain him. But I was doing a crappy job, and as each minute crept by I kept thinking this may be the longest shower of my life, this may be the longest shower in recorded history! Jen's shower was probably no more than 15 minutes, but its amazing how long fifteen minutes can be when you have an angry and hungry infant on your hands.
The interminable shower though, was just a warm-up for my first real night alone with Leo. One Saturday night in September, Jen needed to attend her sisters hen party, making Leo and I bachelors for the evening. Jen left me with what she referred to as a "soft feeder" with which I was supposed to feed him while she was gone.
"The soft feeder is better than a bottle because it helps them avoid nipple confusion," she told me, and not knowing any better, I just nodded my head in collusion.
I'm no expert on the phenomenon of nipple confusion, but I seriously doubted that any son of mine would find the concept of nipples to be very confusing, and time has proven me correct on this issue. Jen and I had also had a mini-disagreement regarding pacifiers on this same nipple confusion point. I believe, firmly, that pacifiers are one of the world's great inventions- when they work. Jen was concerned that a pacifier would cause nipple confusion and screw up her breast-feeding efforts, but Leo took to the pacifier right away, and I begged and pleaded on his behalf and mine for its continued usage. (and I won)
So there we were, two men on a Saturday night with some sports on TV, a pizza and some good Octoberfest beer for me and a soft feeder on the coffee table for Leo. Everything was just fine for the first fifteen minutes after Jen left. Leo was sleeping on my chest like a little lamb, and I couldn't help but think, what's all the fuss about, this is easy! But then the beast began to lurk. It started with some minor fidgeting which I tried to shrug off, then there were some gurgling noises, then a low whimper, and before you knew it- all out kicking and screaming. Don't panic- remember your training- get out the damned soft feeder. But I soon learned that the soft feeder should really just be called a baby shovel. Sure, I'll grant you that its shovel-like feeding mallet looks and feels nothing like a nipple, but the damn thing is so wide compared to his mouth, that even if the child was cooperating, feeding him with this shovel would be a serious challenge.
But Leo was not cooperating- far from it- he was shaking and gyrating his whole body like someone with real soul on a dance floor, screaming and repeatedly knocking the shovel with his hands. I gamely pressed on, trying, more or less to ram the shovel like tool down his mouth, but the boy was having none of it. He was hungry- no doubt- but he kept shaking his head around like he was having a seizure and each shovel full would either swamp him with too much milk or would stream all over his face and chest. If I had our dinner together on film, it would be hilarious, but it was not so amusing at the time. Leo was used to drinking his milk straight from a breast and could not seem to understand why his dad was shoveling milk down his throat with this strange device. I began to count the minutes till Jen got home, and when the moment arrived I felt an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt bad about it, but our men's dinner had been a complete failure and I wanted my boy to eat.
The trials and tribulations of dealing with a newborn are funnier than hearing about the joys, aren't they? Just admit it, you'd rather hear stories of impossible diaper changes and failed feedings than of fatherly bliss, right? Just human nature, I understand. But what makes all of the work rewarding are those moments you get with your child that are so sublime that they bring you to a stage of contentedness that you've never experienced before. When Leo lies on my chest, his heart beating right against mine and looks up at me with his bright, wide eyes, there is no warmer, more righteous feeling on earth. No matter what else has come before, or what will happen afterwards, in those moments you feel as though all is right with the world. Until the Cubs fail to advance runners in scoring position, and get unceremoniously swept out of the playoffs by the no-name Diamondbacks. Then, you're angry again. But it doesn't last as long or sting as bad, when you have your beautiful boy on your lap rhythmically sucking away happily at his pacifier, that marvelous invention that has saved the world.
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